


Shipping Out

by alreadysomeone



Series: Shipping News [1]
Category: JAG (TV 1995)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alreadysomeone/pseuds/alreadysomeone
Summary: Mac stumbles across Webb at the Willard where they get down and a little dirty on the night before Webb leaves for Suriname.
Relationships: Sarah MacKenzie/Clayton Webb
Series: Shipping News [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982152
Kudos: 1





	Shipping Out

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Up through "Need to Know"  
> The Phil Collins song "Can't Stop Loving You" was on repeat as I wrote this.

I've just finished about six hours of agonizing interviews with some astoundingly uncooperative witnesses to the murder case I'm prosecuting. My last stop today was to the law office of the civilian attorney that the accused has hired. He's some fat cat lawyer who thinks that having an expensive office near the heart of DC politics will make him a better, or at least better respected, lawyer.

I’m absolutely famished. Since it’s a Friday, and my birthday’s coming up, I decide to treat myself to dinner. I head to the Willard, wanting to really indulge; there’s nothing like prime rib at an expensive hotel restaurant.

I check in with the hostess, who tells me there'll be a twenty minute wait, which I know really means thirty. Deciding the food's worth the wait, I order a club soda and lime, and sit in one of the low lounge chairs in the bar. This place is great for people watching. There are a lot of faces I recognize from the society pages, some political types, and the occasional fellow service member.

My eyes follow a woman in a bright red dress and I watch her date leer at her as she approaches. He's a definite politico - got that "smooth" look to him. I bet he gave a great campaign speech. I wonder if the much younger woman is his second wife, or if she soon will be.

As the couple walks in the direction of the lobby, they open up a sightline to the bar, and I see someone I know. It's Clay Webb, hunched over the bar. He throws back two shots, of what I'm guessing is vodka, in quick succession. I'd expect to see him here with his mother, or maybe even on a date, but as I'm staring at him, I realize that he's alone.

Webb runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in places. The side of his face, which is all I can see from this angle, looks like he's aged about ten years since I last saw him. There's despair written in his posture. He looks lost and lonely, and my heart's going out to him.

Sipping on my drink, I watch Webb silently signal the bartender for another round. He scowls, as the seat next to him is taken by a man who leans a bit too far into Webb’s personal space.  
My view is blocked now, and I teeter on making the decision to approach Webb. I'm feeling both curiosity and compassion. I guess I want to know what would drive him to sit alone in a hotel bar, drinking himself into oblivion. Then I remember: Suriname.

I feel like an idiot for not figuring it out right away, but I’m glad I didn't walk straight up to him and open my mouth prematurely. Webb sacrificed a lot to give those families some closure. I suspect he’d had his own motivations for leaving that tape for Harm. He had to have; it was a huge risk, and he's paying for it now.

I'm suddenly sad that he won't be around to call on now and then. And we pretty much know he won't spontaneously show up on some aircraft carrier. But that makes me melancholy as well. I take the last sip of my soda, place the glass on the cocktail table, stand to straighten my uniform, and grab my purse and hat to make my way to the bar.

Webb's completely oblivious to his surroundings, not noticing me in his peripheral vision as I stand to his right. Wow, he must really be far-gone, it seems like a spy ought to pay more attention to what's going on around him. I gently place my hand on his back as I lean over, "Webb?"

He whips his head around, and looks at me in anger and confusion. It takes him a full thirty seconds for his face to show the recognition as it comes over him.

"Mac. What'do you want?" He slurs his words together, and I hear resentment in his tone.

"Just saying 'hello', Webb. Mind if I join you?"

Instead of answering, Webb gives a vague wave of his hand in the general direction of the stool next to him. The gesture causes him to lose his balance, and his body pendulums down and to the side before he recovers in time to right himself.

I've never seen Webb so out of control of at least his immediate surroundings, if not the whole situation. I'm kind of worried. Webb's been a pain in the ass and a sarcastic jerk; but, at times, he's also given the safety of others higher priority than his own life, and called in favors for the benefit of others. Now he's been handed a demotion and a ticket out of town for providing some peace of mind to people he didn't even know.

I take up the spot next to him, and signal to the bartender for a cup of coffee, then change my mind, catch his eye again, and hold up two fingers. Webb is ignoring me completely. He's rubbing his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, and when he stops to look around, he squints at me, confused all over again.

"Mac." It's a flat statement devoid of any emotion.

Before I can say anything, the bartender sets the coffees in front of us. Webb looks at the cups, then at me, and back at the cup in front of him. I sense the wheels turning in his head, and he finally reaches for the mug. I pick mine up and take a drink, hoping it will encourage him to do the same. It does, and Webb’s reaction is precisely what I expected - disgust. 

It's the bitter taste of reality; hot coffee, bringing him out of his alcohol-induced haze. We're silent until we've sipped half our drinks away, and he looks at me again.

"Thanks."

"You look like you could use a friend, Webb." Not wanting to push him, I don't make eye contact.

"Yeah, well, any friends I may have will have to learn to speak Dutch or Sranang Tongo now." He gulps down the rest of his coffee, as if he's trying to find solace in this drink now.

I know what it's like to put your job on the line for something you believe in. Luckily, my career has never suffered a blow the way his just has. But, like him, my job means nearly everything to me; I learned that after resigning my commission to work for Dalton's firm. Though I suspect there's something more behind what's going with Webb than a career hit.

"I'm pretty good at languages, I could learn," I offer.

He smiles a tight bitter smirk as he drops his head to his hand, propping it up with his elbow resting on the bar. Webb just stares at me, his eyes darting around, shifting between my eyes and the rest of my face. I can't figure out what he's thinking, but this is definitely an expression I've never seen on Webb. He looks sad and wistful. I reach for his free hand in sympathy.

"Harm told me about Suriname. You okay?"

"Me?" He lifts his head, snorts in disgust, and jerks his hand from my grasp. "Of course I'm okay. Aren't I always? I'm the Tin Man, right?"

Ouch. Guilt at the way we've treated him over the years hits me hard as all the things he's done for us - for the Admiral, for Harm, for me - take my mind over. I think now that it must be difficult to be Clayton Webb. For the most part, I fight to find the truth, and don't have to worry about the consequences of exposing it. I’m guessing that Webb rides a fine line, between what he wants to do and what he needs to do in the name of national security, or at the least in carrying out the orders of his superiors.

"Sorry." For some reason, I reach for his hand again, and hold onto it harder this time.

He looks down to his thigh, where the hand I'm holding is resting. I look down too, and we sit looking at the unlikely sight of our joined hands, until Webb speaks again.

"Why Mac, I didn't know you cared." He's dripping with sarcasm, but he gives a tender squeeze to my hand as he lifts it up about an inch and drops it back to his leg.

He's looking much more clear-headed now, and I'm not sure how to proceed. Something's compelling me to take a crack at breaking through his charade.

"I think there's probably lots about me that you don't know, Webb." I want him to know that we all hide parts of ourselves from the world, and that I understand there's more to him than meets the eye.

"Oh, yeah?" He sounds confused.

And now *I'm* confused. I'm experiencing an attraction to him I hadn't anticipated, and I'm getting the feeling it's mutual.

"When do you leave?" It's the only thing I seem to be able to think of to say.

"If I tell you I'm shipping out first thing in the morning, what'll it get me?" The bitterness has melted completely away from his voice. His tone now carries the simple wry humor I expect from Webb, but the meaning behind his query is a surprise, and I laugh out loud.

"What, are you suddenly eighteen, a virgin, and in the Navy?" I didn't think his question required a serious answer. But that prime rib dinner is quickly fading from my mind, as another indulgence begins to seem like a possibility.

"Would it help my chances tonight if I were, Sarah?" My chest tightens as he uses my first name in a soft, low tone.

"Sex with an eighteen year old virgin is hardly the recipe for a satisfying night for a grown woman. I have a feeling you have a lot more to offer than that."

Oh, Jesus. What have I done? Webb's staring at me; I think he's dumbstruck. Well, at least he's leaving for South America soon, if not actually tomorrow. He'll be thousands of miles away, and I won't have to face him for at least several months.

"You can count on it." I barely hear the whisper of an answer, but I unmistakably feel it in the pit of my stomach, and all the way down to my toes.

"You willing to put your money where your mouth is, Webb?" I know I'm issuing a challenge, and I’m very curious if he'll take it.

"That depends. Where exactly do you want my mouth?"

He took it all right. I've got no answer for him, though, because I'm busy picturing all the places on my body that Webb could put his mouth. Our conversation has stopped, and we're now a scant few inches from each other's lips. I think it strikes us at the same time where we are, because we halt our trajectory that would have ended in a kiss. I know from my earlier people watching, how exposed we are here. Not that there's anything necessarily wrong with two consenting adults kissing in the bar of the Willard. But, all of a sudden, it feels a bit like we're on display.

There's no way to ignore the sexual tension between us, though. As crazy as it would seem in my normal course of life, I'm having no qualms about getting physical with Webb. Sometimes, in life, you're presented with those moments where the unexpected makes complete sense and feels exactly right. This is one of those times.

It's such a stark contrast to my interactions with Harm - not only recently, but for the past few years - where moving towards a physical relationship *does* make sense, but we never quite get there. Why is this, with Webb, so much easier? As these questions invade my mind, I realize an underlying resentment towards Harm at the fact that he's become a bellwether for the way I think relationships should proceed. I think that's why everything happened so quickly with Mic; it was such a surprise, the way he was so forward with his feelings.

Maybe this is easy because Webb's leaving tomorrow. Is it some kind of pity fuck? Somehow, I don't think so. Not that I have illusions of this blossoming into something out of a romance novel, where he whisks me away to South America with him; but, for now, I'm willing to go along with whatever unfolds this evening.

Instead of kissing me, Webb places a more discrete peck on my cheek, and ends up with his lips at my ear - which feels just as intimate as a kiss on the lips. I listen to him breathe, and feel the hot moist air from his breath send shivers down my neck that settle someplace between my legs.

"What did you have in mind?" I ask, putting the ball back in his court.

"I think we both know this is hardly the place to elaborate on that. Suffice it to say, I'm no eighteen year old virgin." 

The self-assurance in his voice is disarming and arousing. It's not the arrogant confidence he carries on the job. It is a practical statement of skill, which makes the idea all the more attractive.

"I'd be a poor officer of the court, if I didn't take it upon myself to investigate your claims."

"I have a room. Come with me?" He cocks his head in the direction of the lobby, eyebrows raised in invitation.

"Were you planning on meeting someone here?" I'm unexpectedly jealous, not liking the image of being his second choice this evening. Which is totally ridiculous, since until fifteen minutes ago, I hadn’t really thought any more about going to bed with Webb than I’ve about going to bed with the Admiral. Oops, never mind.

"Hardly. My plan was to get as drunk as possible, and I didn't want to worry about driving home." He pulls his wallet out and throws down what I'm sure is far too much money on the bar - of course, I don't know how long he was here before I spotted him.

"Suriname?" I guess the reason for his pity party. I'm both proud of what he did and sorry that he's in a business where doing the right thing is sometimes punished.

I get no response. Webb merely walks away from the bar, far steadier on his feet than I would have expected. We pass through the crowded lobby in silence and, surprising me, as soon as he pushes the elevator call button, Webb takes my cover out of my hand and interweaves our fingers together.

"I acted on my own - a career killer in the intelligence business. For the DCI, this was personal; so the line I crossed was personal *and* professional. Now I get to go on an extended vacation to Paramaribo."

"I'm sorry." It must be like getting a station transfer to Iceland. And, from what Harm told me, he's not only getting a transfer, but a pretty serious demotion.

"I'm not." He looks down. I think he's embarrassed by the admission.

One of the elevators "dings," and the doors open to reveal a carload of people emptying out. By some unusual twist, we’re the only ones getting on, and as soon as the doors slide shut, Webb and I stand facing each other. The wave of sexual energy that had been carrying us up to his room has dissipated for now, but there's still something propelling us forward.

"Looked to me like you were feeling sorry for yourself there at the bar."

"Feeling sorry for myself, yes. Sorry about what I did, no. Those families deserved closure. Most don't get that."

"You're a good man, Clayton Webb." I hope he can hear the certainty in my voice.

"Sure." He sounds deflated, defeated.

"Stop it." I'm speaking harshly now, "You gave those families something no one else had the guts to give them. You shouldn't be sorry for what you did; you should be proud of it. That might not make sense in the Company's way of thinking. But I'm proud to call you a friend for it."

He looks embarrassed and like he's struggling, deciding if he can allow himself to feel pride in his decision.

"Thanks," he whispers, and looks away.  
"For a guy who's usually oozing arrogance and conceit, you've got a real soft side to you, Clay. You should let it show more often."

"It's nearly impossible for me to be open." He looks absolutely tragic, like a character out of a play. I think he's torn between the emotions he feels inside, and the steely exterior he feels he has to project to the world.

Between his sexual confidence in the bar and this newly revealed insecurity, I'm experiencing an attraction to him that's hard to resist. I step closer and tilt my head to kiss him. He meets me halfway, but the kiss remains soft and chaste because the elevator soon reaches the floor his room is on.

I let Clay lead the way and, as we walk, he fishes the key card out of an inside pocket of his jacket. My mind is caught between the reeling thoughts of what will happen once we're inside his room and questions about what exactly is going on between us. I try to shove the questions aside and concentrate on watching the way his body is moving as he walks at a fast clip. His dark gray three-piece suit is a tailored fit, as always, but having never really considered what was beneath his clothes before, I'm gaining a new appreciation for his tailor's handiwork.

Clay slips the key card into the slot, watches the light turn green, and sharply turns the handle and shoves the door inward. He flicks a light switch that turns on a floor lamp on the far side of the room, and lets me in first. I walk all the way into the room before turning around to take it in. I've never been in one of the rooms here, but it's just as advertised, elegant and tasteful. The king size bed is prominent in the room because of its size, but there's also a full size couch, a writing table, bureau, and an armoire. The furniture looks to be cherry, and the deep red bedspread matches the upholstery on the couch and chair.

Turning my attention back to Clay, I watch him put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door and bolt it shut. He looks sheepish when he sees me following his actions. I cross over to him, take my cover back from his hand and walk to the couch where I place it, and my purse, down on the cushions.

He sets the key card on the bureau, removes his suit jacket, and hangs it over the chair at the desk. Proceeding towards me, Clay stands very close and puts his hands on his hips. I watch his lips curl into a patented Webb smirk. "Now, where was it you wanted my mouth?"

He's not making a move, throwing my own challenge back at me. I've no smart answer or witty repartee. I just lift my hands to his face and kiss him. His counter-move is immediate. Hands rest first on my waist, then slide lower to the curve of my hips. I feel our bodies draw closer.  
One of his hands moves over and over the curve of my right hip. I sense the desire in his touch; he wants to reach farther, to feel more. I test his lips with my tongue, and Clay opens his mouth to me. There's an aftertaste of alcohol, but it's overridden by coffee, and something I assume to be simply *Clay*.

I've stopped questioning the why or how of this. It's a carnal experience, to be sure, but there's years of what I'd consider a growing friendship, as well. And certainly respect. I find myself trusting him completely; not just with my physical safety, but emotionally too. Maybe it’s because there's nothing at stake; we carry no baggage or underlying risky emotional attachments. Not yet, anyway.

While our tongues explore and taste, I move my hands to his chest to begin to unbutton his vest. His fingers gather the material of my skirt higher and higher, until his hands are on my legs, leaving just my panty hose between his skin and mine. It dawns on me that I'm wearing some distinctly not-so-sexy underwear, and I think the bra I have on has a rip near the clasp. How embarrassing.

Luring me away from that line of thinking, Clay pulls me tighter to him, his hand massaging my rear. I snake my arms around his body, my fingers tangle in his hair and skim the skin on the back of his neck.

The pressure and warmth our bodies are creating is alluring. I roll my hips against his, feeling his hardness beneath his slacks. Distracted by the contact, Clay pauses our kiss and moves his mouth to my neck. He's nibbling just below my ear, and I hear my breathing shift to become harder and uneven.

Every nip at my sensitive skin sends a tingling shiver through my core, and I feel a heat growing between my legs. I close my eyes and, as I get light headed from the sensations, I have to concentrate to keep my balance.

Clay moves us toward the bed where he sits down; I remain standing. He reaches his arms around me in a tight embrace and I cradle his head between my breasts, playing with his hair. His hands again find the hem of my skirt to lift the material out of the way. Clay looks up at me with a question in his eyes. In lieu of an answer, I shed my uniform jacket and start to unbutton my blouse.

As I get to the last button, I feel Clay pulling my panty hose down. When they're bunched at my ankles, I step out of my shoes, slip the hose off, and toss them to the side. Then I kick my shoes far out of the way.

Clay chuckles as one shoe lands on top of the small desk. "Marines. Always doing things faster, farther, and harder."

"You can count on that," I smile.

"I hope so," he banters back, as I reach to undo the clasp and zipper on my skirt.

“You’re not going to want me to order you around like a drill instructor, are you, Clay?”

Clay covers my hands with his and unzips my skirt, as he speaks with mock thoughtfulness, “Hadn’t thought of that…”

My skirt drops to the floor, I look down and remember my unflattering underwear, and apologize, "Sorry, they're not very sexy." They’re a faded, blotchy blue cotton pair that have seen too many laundry cycles. At least they're bikini-cut, and not one of the granny-style pairs I've got for emergency back-ups.

"You hear me complaining?" He tucks his index fingers into the top edge of my panties, one finger just below each of my hip bones. Instead of pulling the material down, he teases me with his fingers, running them back and forth, together and apart, just under the elastic waistline.

I get back to my earlier task of removing some of his clothes, finally shoving his vest over his shoulders. He’s got to take his hands off me to shrug it away. After he’s tossed it to the couch, Clay undoes the last button on my blouse and, running his hands from the top curve of my breasts to my shoulders, the shirt falls to the floor.

Clay grabs me firmly around my ribs, so his thumbs are at the bottom edge of my bra. He places small kisses across my belly, and then sort of nuzzles my cleavage. I reach to undo my bra, not really wanting him to think I’m too poor to afford bras that aren’t ancient and ripped. But, when I’ve got it all the way off, it’s clear that his attention is hardly on the state of repair of my clothes.

His hands are firm on my breasts as he kneads them and pinches my nipples lightly, tightening them into harder and harder buds. Wrapping his left arm around my waist, he grasps me to him and supports my left breast with his right hand as he traces the perimeter of my aureole with his tongue. He spirals his tongue closer and closer to my nipple, increasing the pressure as he does.

Finally, he’s flicking my nipple with his tongue, and biting at it with his lips. I’m looking down at him, and seeing the way he’s licking and biting floods me with wetness. His teeth graze the sensitive taut skin, and it’s as if he’s testing to see how hard he can bite, like he’s holding back some primal force that wants to take over.

“Yes.” The word’s out of my mouth before I realize I’ve spoken, and it’s not only an affirmation that what he’s doing feels great, I’m also granting him permission to let himself go.

He understands immediately what I barely knew I was communicating, and he sucks and bites hard on my nipple, while bringing his other hand around to pinch at the peak of my other breast. A hot, sudden shock of pleasure shoots from my nipples straight to my clit, and I gasp.

The heat where his mouth and hand are is fierce, and I move my legs to straddle his knee. Clay scoots forward on the bed, and I sit down a little to rub my sex along his thigh. He frees his mouth for a moment, “Oh, fuck, Sarah. You feel so good.”

We’re losing control with each other, and that fact is driving my passion just as much as the way he’s touching me. I sit down completely on his leg, and grab his head to bring his lips to mine. He kisses me fiercely, with the same force he’d applied to my nipples, and I duel back with my tongue. It’s rough and raw, and we’re panting hard between kisses, where we’re licking and nipping at each other’s tongues and lips.

I’m grinding myself hard into his thigh, and have shifted to put my right knee on the bed, which brings our groins almost together. I feel him trying to thrust back, as I rhythmically move my hips against him, so I reach between us and rub his erection through his pants. Clay’s already really hard, and he can’t be comfortable sitting there, still in his pants.

I push him back onto the bed and start unbuttoning his shirt. Clay impatiently shoves my hands away and down. I turn my attention back to his pants. Quickly undoing his belt, the fastener, and the zipper at the top of his slacks, I reach into his boxers and straighten out his erection. He sucks in a sharp breath as I touch the smooth skin of his cock. I smile and watch as he sits halfway up to rid himself of his dress shirt. He bunches it up, and throws it across the room.  
I’ve still got one hand around him, so with my free hand I start to pull his pants and underwear down. He reaches to help me, and I finally have to let go of his erection to get his clothes the rest of the way off. While I step off the bed, he toes his shoes off, so I can pull his socks from his feet and yank his pants away.

As soon as I’m done, I shove his legs apart a bit and kiss his inner thighs, working my way to his balls. Barely touching his cock, I let my fingers flit over his shaft, my nails grazing the head. Clay’s breathing is deep and hard, and while one of his hands reaches to grasp the bedspread, the other touches the top of my head. Again I feel a barely contained and almost needy passion in his touch.

I switch my kisses to his erection, and move my teasing touches to his balls. I don’t make him wait long before I encircle him with my lips. His swollen member surges in my mouth, and he gets even harder when I take as much of him in as I can.

As much as some men want to think that size doesn’t matter, it does. And Clay’s got nothing to worry about. He’s pretty impressive really, and from feeling his length and girth in my mouth, I moan in anticipation of feeling him fill me elsewhere. As I moan, Clay’s light touch on my head transforms into a firm grip on my hair, but he’s still letting me set the pace.

I fondle him with my hands and feel the pulsing vein in his cock with my tongue, as I work him up and down with my mouth. His hips thrust up from the bed and Clay suddenly says, “Stop.”

I obey the request, sit up, and squeeze the base of his cock briefly. He reaches out and grabs my arms, tumbling me to him.

“You’re too good at that.” He gets the compliment out just before kissing me and pulling me all the way on top of him.

His tongue invades my mouth hungrily. Swirling and plunging his tongue around mine, I push my hips against his, and we groan simultaneously. His hands sweep across my back, past my waist to my butt, where he splays his fingers and squeezes the muscles there, while holding me hard against his erection.

With a second brief squeeze, he rolls me to the side and props himself up on his forearm. I let my head drop back onto the bed while he kisses me from my collarbone to the side of my breast, where the curve meets my ribcage. Everywhere his kisses land, I feel a charge run through my body to settle finally between my legs.

Still kissing my chest and moving his mouth all over my upper body, Clay reaches down to finally remove my panties. He has to crawl a ways down on the bed to take them all the way off. And, after pitching the underwear over the side of the bed, he comes back to lay alongside me, letting one hand slide up my inner thigh as he does. Clay runs his surprisingly soft hand upward, and I try to scoot myself lower to let my sex meet his hand even sooner. He indulges me by covering my mound with his hand and teasing my lips apart with his fingers.

“Oohh, yeah,” I breathe out, as his middle finger finds my wet core and dips inside. Clay’s stopped kissing me, and I open my eyes to see him looking down at me. His gaze is smoky, lids heavy with desire. Bending to let his lips meet mine, he pulls his finger from me, only to reinsert it, and a second finger, as well, just as his tongue enters my mouth with the same erotic force.

I feel my interior muscles squeezing around his fingers, as he plunges them in and out of me, occasionally pulling all the way out to spread my wetness over my lips and clit, before diving them back into my center. I feel completely at his mercy, but he’s not letting up as I buck my hips off the mattress to meet his thrusts.

Shifting his body on the bed, Clay kneels beside me for a moment and kisses my stomach before lying between my legs. His coordinated attentions to my sex never let up and, in a second, his mouth joins his hands there. His hot tongue parts my lips over my clit, and I feel the tip of his tongue discovering the responsive nerve endings there. I thrust into his face, and he sucks on my clit in response. Clay’s fingers curve inside me to rub my walls, as his mouth and tongue attend to my clit. I’m moaning his name, and, when I feel him bite my clit the way he’d gone after my nipples, I’m over the edge. I reach to grasp his head, pulling his mouth to me harder. Clay doesn’t still his actions until my shuddering body is finally at rest.

I let go of the grip I had on his hair, and begin to smooth it out. Clay gently pulls his fingers from me, and lightly kisses my now-sensitive clit before sitting up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinning.

“Told you I was no eighteen year old virgin.”

“No shit, Clay. Someone taught you well,” I laugh, and he joins in for a moment, before lying on his side and resting his head on my belly, where he kisses the skin that’s in his reach.

“Yeah, she did. And I *was* an eighteen year old virgin at the time.”

I’m totally surprised by Clay’s answer. And I watch his expression go almost blank as he runs a hand up the side of my chest to lazily fondle my breast, occasionally rolling the nipple between his finger and thumb.

“Older woman?” I try to picture a young, inexperienced Clay Webb being deflowered. Between that image, and the way he’s continually stimulating my nipple now, I’m getting turned on again in a hurry.

“English professor. She broke my heart but, as you said, she taught me well.”

It’s almost too cliché to be true, but he looks sad and sentimental, and I’ve no reason to doubt the truth of the story.

“She also taught you to be a patient man.” With the rebuilding of my sexual excitement, I realize that he was on the edge not that long ago, and still hasn’t had any release.

“Patience is a virtue.” He’s made the shift back to sarcastic and playful. He gets to his knees, making a move, perhaps in the hopes that he won’t have to be too patient much longer.

His erection has waned, but when I run a hand up his leg and brush his cock, I see it jump, and watch as he grows again to full size. I put my knees up and lazily fondle him, feeling satisfied for the moment to ride the line between satiated and desirous. Clay closes his eyes, and holds on to one of my knees to balance himself. Soon he’s leaning his hips into my touch, and I grab him firmly, finding myself unable to resist getting turned on by watching his reactions to the way I’m handling him.

I let my other hand wander between my legs, and put just the slightest circles of pressure on my clit. Clay must sense my movements, because he opens his eyes to look at me. I don’t stop touching myself, but I feel my face flush at being “caught.” Clay moans, “Sarah,” and reaches to my face, to stroke his fingers over my lips. It turns me on all the more, and I part my lips, letting one of his fingers into my mouth and holding his gaze the whole time. I can taste myself on his skin as I swirl my tongue around his finger, before he pulls it loose to run it over a rock hard nipple. I could come in about thirty more seconds, but I really want him inside me.

“Clay, we should probably have the ‘health and safety’ talk.”

“Oh, yeahhh,” he growls sexily.

I laugh; he knows we need to have the obligatory “talk,” but he clearly understands what prompted me to bring it up. Backing off just enough to kneel between my legs, he says, “Getting shipped out tomorrow, remember? I’m newly tested, and very clean.”

Rubbing my thighs and moving his hands to the juncture of my legs, he waits for my history.

“Tested as soon as I got back from Afghanistan. Haven’t been sleeping with anyone. I’m completely clean. Oh, and on the pill.”

I think his patience has just run out, because he settles his hips between my legs as soon as I finish my sentence. His cock is pressing at my opening, and, with a tilt of my hips, his head slips inside. Taking control, Clay moves to push the rest of the way inside my passage. I’m wet from all the foreplay, but he’s still a tight fit and, once he’s all the way in, I feel amazingly filled; my heart starts pounding with the excitement of it.

Clay pulls out and slides back in a few times, before we establish a rhythm that has him thrusting deeper and harder into me. Tonight, I’ve seen him lose control and regain it several times; this time, he’s letting himself go completely. With each pivot of his hips, I feel him massaging my walls inside, and putting friction over my clit from the outside. The tenuous grasp I’d had on my own composure is gone, as well. I grip him hard between my legs, and meet his thrusts with my own.

“God, Clay, yes.”

“What do you want?” he asks me.

“You.”

“Tell me what you want.” he implores, sounding close to begging.

There’s not a thing he’s not doing to pleasure me. Then I realize what he’s asking, and answer, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh, yessss.”

I’ve never said those words to any man before, but the way he’s making me feel, there’s a strange, desperate freedom I’m experiencing. It doesn’t feel dirty or wrong to say it, just natural to express what I want, and to have him want that from me.

Clay’s slamming into me really hard now, and I grab his ass to angle him differently. He adjusts quickly, and I feel myself going over the edge, a powerful orgasm taking me over. As I come down from the brief high, Clay softens his thrusts and leans in closer to me. The tenor has changed, and his movements are slower, but they somehow feel more intense. His body goes rigid for a second, and his cock twitches inside me as he bites down on my shoulder and cries out.

We lie silently for a long time, caressing each other. I begin to feel goose bumps on his skin, and realize that I’m chilly as well. We’re a sweaty, sticky mess, and should probably clean up a bit before getting under the covers.

“Shower?” I whisper, not really wanting to break the mood.

“Yeah.” Now that Clay’s completely flaccid, he slides all the way from me as he moves to get up. Offering me a hand, he helps me off the bed.

We get clean and warm in the shower; it’s more than roomy enough for two. We dry off, and find the complimentary toothbrushes and toothpaste, which we use, before crawling into the giant bed.

It’s been hours since I first spotted Clay in the bar downstairs, but I’m surprisingly not tired. Instead of rolling over and going to sleep, Clay seems more awake as well. We curl up together, Clay holding me tight from behind, and we talk for hours.

Mostly he talks and I listen, interrupting now and then with a question, or to prompt him to continue. We occasionally shift positions and, after a while, his head is on my upper chest and I’m running my fingers through his hair. He talks a lot about his dad, and what it was like for him and his mom to not really know what happened to him. I realize it’s why he did what he did for the families of the men on the Angel Shark.

Clay tells me how much his mother worries about him. And how they both struggle over their belief in the missions of the US intelligence forces that so contradicts their need for closure with what happened to his father.

I feel like I’ve learned more about Clay tonight than I have in the seven years I’ve known him - not just sexually. There’s a deeper opening up occurring, and I’m really sorry he’s leaving. I’m astute enough to realize that this night probably wouldn’t have happened, nor would Clay have been so open, if he weren’t leaving. I sigh audibly, and Clay lifts his head to look at me.

I suspect he knows what I’m thinking about, because he kisses me tenderly, and says, “It's definitely punishment, but I’m confident I'll be back.”

Clay puts his head back down on my shoulder, and he holds onto me, his fingers circling a spot on my hip. I'm sorry it took Clay getting a demotion and shipped overseas for me to get to know him this way. It’s quiet in the room and, without looking at the clock, I know it’s 4:12 in the morning. My body is exhausted from working late every night this week, and from the physical exertion tonight, but I’m reluctant to go to sleep. I want to hold onto this time with Clay.

"Thanks, Sarah,” he says, then quickly amends, “I don't mean for the sex."

"My pleasure. On both counts," I say with a smile.

"Tell me about your parents."

It’s a question out of the blue. I usually resent having to explain my family history, but I know Clay probably knows the basic story, and I don't feel like he's being patronizing. It feels like he really wants to know. So, I tell him about how my father made me feel worthless, what the effects of that were on me growing up, and how it probably still has a presence in my life. I try to concentrate on how it made me who I am today, and I don't dwell on the alcoholism thing. It’s a bit of positive reinforcement for me to frame it that way and, when I’m done talking, he kisses my temple. It’s not at all condescending, or demeaning, and I sense such acceptance and warmth of affection from him.

As the sun starts to come up, we're both dozing off at last. I manage to ask him what time he needs to leave, before giving in to sleep, and am very glad that his answer is noon.

When I wake up again, it’s 10:23. Clay’s back is to me, but I’m right up next to him, matching the way his legs are curled up. My arm is around his waist, and our heads are on the same pillow. I breathe in his scent, and put my nose on his neck at his hairline.

“I was wondering when you were going to wake up.” I jump a little at the sound of his voice.

“Jesus, Clay, you scared me.”

“Sorry, I wanted to have the chance to treat you to breakfast, or at least brunch, before I have to pick up my bags from home and go to the airport.” He rolls onto his back, lifts the arm that I had draped over him, and kisses the palm of my hand.

“You really are leaving today?” I didn’t think he was using it as a pick up line last night, but this morning I sort of wish he had. I don’t want him to go.

“Did you really think I was feeding you a line to get you into bed? Not that I wouldn’t have sooner, if I’d known it would work so well.”

He’s sarcastic and smiling, so I make a move to straddle him, trying to gain the upper hand. He keeps smiling, and I feel like I need to say something. I’m fighting with myself, trying to decide how stupid it would be to tell him I think I’m falling in love with him right after we’ve just spent the night together, and on the day he’s leaving.

Clay takes the decision out of my hands, as he grabs my arms and pulls me to him, “Come see me in Suriname. Please. Or, at least, say we can do this again, when I get back.”

I kiss him, and say, “Okay. To both. Now, come here and fuck me.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Are we doing the drill instructor thing now?” he jokes, and twists my nipples in play.

I swat his hands away, and tell him I get to be in charge this time. But, in the end, I want his hands on me and, as I sink down onto his erection a few minutes later, I pick his hands up and place them on my breasts.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says again, and I rock my hips back and forth on his, feeling myself instantly on the edge of an orgasm.

The climax racks my body, and, afterwards, Clay flips me over, plunges hard into my core and shouts, “Fuck, yes,” as he comes hard inside me.

We shower again, and put on our clothes from yesterday, although I toss my underwear in the trash. We eat brunch in the restaurant of the Willard, with me violating uniform regulations, and Clay revealing that he’d dug my panties out of the trash, so he could take them along to Suriname.

I’m completely flattered and turned on by his confession. I tell him that I expect a phone call, or, at the very least, a letter or an e-mail, describing in detail just what he’s doing with that underwear. Clay shifts in his seat, and I think he’s getting excited, too.

We change the subject and finish our meals, which we both wolf down. Clay drives me home, since I’d taken a taxi around town yesterday. When we arrive in front of my place, he turns the car engine off, and hugs me.

“Sarah, if I get out of the car, or walk you upstairs, I won’t be able to leave, and I’ll miss my flight.”

I squeeze him hard, and whisper, “Okay.”

“Bye.” He finally loosens his embrace; I know he’s got to get going.

“Call me, when you’re settled in, to let me know you’re okay, and what it’s like in Paramaribo.” I’m trying to sound casual, and not betray how sad I am.

“I promise.” His voice is firm, and he kisses me once more, nibbling at my lower lip, and swiping his tongue over mine.

I reluctantly get out of the car and, as I watch Clay drive away, I can see him waving something out the window in a farewell gesture. I think it’s my underwear.

END


End file.
